Prisoner exchange.
10.oct.2119.
KANAR. Capital.
The avenue was gradually filling up with people. There was about half an hour left before the column would pass, maybe a little more. People, who were heading to the avenue from all the streets and alleys, were dragging along pre-prepared ammunition - bags with all sorts of junk.
- I've never seen anything like that, - Dragovich addressed Flaxen-H, nodding at the group of people who had already chosen a "position" for themselves, with several bags standing under their feet. - Even when I was looking at you at home. I didn't see anything about this tradition.
- I wasn't paying attention, - Flaxen-Haired replied. - We don't make a secret of it. Maybe this isn't an example of refined society, but it brings people together quite well. If you haven't noticed, everyone here is much more polite and friendly to each other. Just like in some pre-war years.
- I haven't noticed it yet, - answered Dragovich, - and I have nothing to compare it to. How many times have I been in the city during the day?
- Well, yes, that's true. In short, trust my experience and take my word for it. Our people aren't even this friendly on New Year's Eve.
Nevertheless, despite Flaxen-H's assertions, patrolling of the entire avenue and the adjacent streets was intensified to such a level, as if Harlington was supposed to arrive not in a couple of weeks, but today, and immediately head to the left-bank KANAR.
- If only "@enemy" didn't do anything, otherwise it would be a complete mess! - said Flaxen-Haired and nodded somewhere upwards, after which he jumped up to the nearest growing tree and knocked three times. - When you have a ballistic alarm, does the crowd break in? Like, whoever gets there first.
- Well, in general, they always say that you need to do everything without fuss, and with a ballistic alarm there is a lag and it is known. For the most part, many are no longer in a hurry, but some, as before, rush headlong, as if they had ground pepper in their ass.
- The same nonsense, - answered Flaxen-Haired. - Although, if you think about it, it is not a big deal. In winter, in a couple of days with black ice, we have about as many of these fractures and other things as from one such run. It is even useful. Maybe the crowd is still trainable. Who knows.
Dragovich also looked up and squinted from the pleasant October sun. The day was clear, with transparent air. In such a day, you could sit on some flying cuttlefish and roll the entire tank.
At home, this is what winter or very late autumn looked like. Here it was perceived as the last days of the passing, if not summer, then the summer season, the one in which there is no snow yet. According to Flaxen-H, it could happen that in a couple of days all the streets would be white. Having figured out the character of his new friend a little, Dragovich did not really believe in it - it was now about twenty degrees. Now it was quite possible to get by with just a T-shirt, at least being here, on a sunlit city street and not in some shady forest.
Nevertheless, both Dragovich and Flaxen-Haired were dressed in rather warm, faceless military jackets. At least they, the jackets, were the same. Considering the locals' careless attitude towards the unification of service clothing, this was a sign of some kind of organization, accepted in the rest of the world.
Only the huge rectangular chevrons sewn onto the right arm and the weapons were called upon to serve as distinctive signs - they, however, always, at all times, carried such a secondary identification function. There were also badges on the belt, apparently copied from American police officers. But if the chevrons were at least visible, albeit from a certain angle, then in order to see the badge, you had to keep your jacket constantly unbuttoned - it was impossible to attach it to the jacket.
Ahead of him loomed some kind of crowd - people surrounded something or someone with a dense wall, completely blocking the pedestrian part of the avenue.
- What's going on there? - said Flaxen-Haired and moved towards the human wall.
- People, please let me through, - he said slowly and strained in such a tone as if someone had replaced the words for him, squeezing his throat, and the original words were: "hey, herd, move aside your motherfuckers! I'm sick of you standing here!"
Dragovich, not feeling much enthusiasm, nevertheless moved after Flaxen-H. The same one suddenly turned around and with an incomprehensible grin moved back.
- What's going on there? - Dragovich asked, backing away through the corridor made in the crowd.
- Yeah, there... - Flaxen-Haired grinned. - Let's go back.
- Gaga dragged herself here, - Flaxen-Haired said in a muffled voice, looking around first.
- Who?
- Don't you know her?
- No
- Our "Doc's" niesse, - he said "niesse". - She records her own videos. Didn't you know?
- Natalia or something? - Dragovich said with a slight accent.
- Well, yeah. Did you see her?
- Why Gaga?
- Who knows, there are plenty of other words, but that's what we call her. Naturally unofficially, and naturally, she wouldn't like it. And she doesn't like it.
- What does Gaga even mean?
- Don't you know English? That's crazy! - He twirled his finger at his temple, not in the Russian way, but in the American manner, as if stirring the air.
- What is she? That? - Dragovich repeated the gesture.
- No, if only... She's just a fool and a rich kid to boot.
- Why a fool?
- Because she got on nerves.
- Whom?
- Everyone.
- Actually, before I came here, I watched a lot of stuff about you, including her. I wouldn't say that... Overall, the videos are okay. Of course, the weapon reviews might not be her thing, but the rest - about life in the city and all that - I'd say that the videos are at a decent level. It just looks a little weird when she runs around the shooting range or wherever they shoot, in civilian clothes, and in such... too civilian clothes.
- Fashionable? - Flaxen-Haired corrected.
- Something like that. Like she's making a gangster movie. Although on the other hand, that's even a plus. Not very serious, but why not?
- Let's go and have a look, Flaxen-Haired suggested in a grumpy tone and headed for the barriers erected to separate the roadway from the crowded sidewalks.
A militiaman standing nearby with a rapid-fire shotgun cast a quick glance at both of them and, having noticed the chevrons, indifferently turned away without saying a word.
At some distance from the crowd, about twenty meters away, there were a couple of armored vehicles - ordinary lightly armored trucks. Apparently, Gaga and her team, who had stirred up the crowd, had arrived in them.
Having walked around the crowd, which had formed a semicircle, Dragovich, like Flaxen-Haired, saw what was happening there. "Doc's niece" was standing in the middle of the crowd in her usual overdressed appearance and was chatting something into a camera held by some civilian brat. The rest of her company were military, that is, KANAR militia. Not breaking the local traditions, they were dressed in whatever they could find, but, to their credit, the equipment was not cheap.
Having walked along the roadway as if what was happening did not interest them at all, Dragovich and Flaxen-Haired slowed down and stood at the edge of the crowd so as not to lose sight of what was happening in the center of the semicircle.
- They are filming here specifically to show that everything here is decorous and noble, without any trash, - a grumpy elderly male voice sounded from the crowd.
- They should have filmed it there, at the beginning, where you can only whistle, - a second voice sounded in response.
- This is to make it look like everything is decent along the entire avenue. At home, you can check from the frame on the map, - another one joined in.
- So who needs it? Why the hell? - was heard from the discord.
- Well, maybe someone does. There are not enough different fools, who needs it more than anyone? And then the American president arrives.
- What kind of president is he? What, haven't you gotten enough sleep?
- The future president.
- Not for a while yet.
- All the same. I'm telling you - they're putting everything in order here before him. Creating an appearance.
- Listening to the conversation and trying to figure out what was going on here, Dragovich meanwhile did not lose visual contact with what was happening in the center.
Gaga, or Natasha, as Flaxen-Haired also called her, meanwhile began to pester those around her, that is, interview them. Well, not really an interview, but rather a couple of phrases. Dragovich had seen how this was done before. In addition to weapons reviews, which were far from the main part of the content, Gaga was wandering around the city and KANAR as a whole, telling and showing various, including unsightly, sides of local life.
The general leitmotif was: "look how poor and unfortunate we are, but we resist and fight."
In general, there, at home, Dragovich had a completely unambiguous impression that the matter was, if not necessary, then sensible. Accordingly, Flaxen-H's attitude was, to a certain extent, a surprise.
Discussing something with Flaxen-H here, standing next to the crowd, was not an option. It's one thing when civilians are chatting, another thing when they are. So all that was left was to silently observe, form an impression, and only then start another idle conversation.
Following the conversation with the crowd, another, traditional and long-planned part followed - several children managed to squeeze through the adults' legs, with whom Gaga began to chat, kneeling down. Dragovich had seen all this before, but not in person.
Okay, let's go, - he finally suggested, glancing at Flaxen-H.
He stood frowning and with such a look as if he was about to move through the fence, approach this very Gaga and tell her something.
- Yes. Let's go already. Otherwise, we'll just stand there and stare. We have other things to do, - Flaxen-Haired muttered and turned towards the armored vehicles - the patrol route lay in that direction, up the avenue.
There, behind a distant smooth turn, was the city station, after which, or, if we judged by the direction of the column, before, it was only allowed to whistle.
After walking a couple of dozen meters, Dragovich and Flaxen-Haired caught up with the armored vehicles. The door of the second one, which was further away from the crowd, was wide open. From there, the driver could be seen, sprawled out in his seat just as he usually did in any more or less spacious transport Flaxen-Haired. The only question that arose about the driver was why he hadn't stuck his foot through the side window.
The bright sun was desperately glaring on the wide, deserted roadway, which went slightly up and to the left. Everything looked as if the wide asphalt road had been specially built and fenced off so that people could leisurely stroll along it without maneuvering past the flickering passersby here and there, swarming behind the fences. Dragovich and Flaxen-Haired could easily afford it - and that's what they did. Somewhere far ahead, there were more of the same smart guys.
When Dragovich and Flaxen-Haired were already approaching the turn, after which a view of the station square with the "monument to the locomotive" opened up, the roar of trucks was heard behind them - as it turned out, these were the two vehicles that Gaga's group was riding on.
- "Gaga people" are on their way, - Flaxen-Haired grinned. - In English, as far as I know, "gaga people" is the same as just "Gaga". Although, of course, the fighters are not to blame for the fact that they were harnessed to such a thing.
- Is she local? - asked Dragovich, realizing that since she was "Doc's" niece, then most likely yes.
- Local, - Flaxen-Haired answered with disdain in his voice. - She's twenty-three years old, and she's so important... She studied at some kind of sharaga at "Inter-Nitro". That's there, - he waved towards the industrial buildings visible on the horizon. - She was supposed to walk around the chemical plant in overalls, pressing the buttons on the machines in time. Or break flasks in the Laboratory, but look... She's lucky, damn it. She rides like a princess.
- I see you know so much... - Dragovich grinned.
- And what do I know that I could say "you know so much".
- No, I see you're telling it like that... usually, though, people behave like that at a younger age.
- How exactly do they behave? I wouldn't say that she behaves like a teenager. Like an ordinary fool - I agree.
- No, I'm talking about your hostility. Would you like her to be yours?
- Damn it, you idiot!
- What if you became Doc's nephew. Well, not really his nephew, but how would that be correct?
- Look, - Flaxen-Haired addressed Dragovich as if nothing had happened, - there's some idiot walking down the road, talking God knows what. What a madhouse, huh?! - Flaxen-Haired continued in a disgusted tone, as if there really was someone walking in front of them, or even some homeless person lying around. - It's amazing, huh, what kind of bruised people you don't see here.
Dragovich didn't immediately realize that the idiot walking and babbling was him, Dragovich.
- And what would be the correct Russian word for it... - Dragovich still didn't give up. - If she's a niece, then "Doc" will nephew-adopt you up, right? Well, like, he'll take you into his Doc's family. Yeah, he'll breed.
Flaxen-Haired made a face as if he wanted to spy something in the distance, then abruptly took a couple of steps back from Dragovich and walked with a businesslike air, as if Dragovich wasn't even around.
Still, it was possible to see that he was laughing at himself, but he couldn't allow himself to laugh at himself. About fifty meters away, both of them got tired of putting on a comedy act and Dragovich was the first to "de-escalate."
- Twenty minutes left, - he announced.
- We'll have time to get to the station and back, - Flaxen-Haired replied, - although let's head back. There's only yelling and whistling beyond the station. You haven't seen the most interesting thing. You need to see it.
Both headed for the nearest gap in the fence, not far from which there was a passage into the courtyards. Walking through the courtyards was also part of the patrol program, so everything was fine.
The courtyard they entered was sparsely populated and littered. No, there was no trash lying around anywhere, as sometimes happened - there were just piles of waste in the places designated for containers.
- Did they get their "ammunition" from here? - asked Dragovich.
- No, what are you talking about. Everyone has their own. Well, that is, everyone knows what they have. But what about here? Rummaging through bags and stumbling upon rotten stuff? If someone prepared the Rotten stuff, they know what kind of rotten stuff it is. I'm not even talking about paint. You won't find that here.
- And no one tried to do anything more serious? I mean, to shoot.
- That happened at the very beginning. I think one of the crowd shot a pistol, nothing serious. Then "Doc" spoke personally and threatened that if this happens again, the avenger will be put in the back of the truck together with or instead of him, depending on how he shoots, and welcome to the right bank. Got it, right, why so harshly?
- Why?
- Because you can ruin the exchange. Who needs this? Because of one idiot. I'm surprised you haven't heard of our tradition? The road of hatred and all that. You have to censor it like that... and on YT too. It costs money... Maybe you didn't watch it well, that is, not enough?
- Maybe you did watch it well.
- Well, in short, as for the shooting, there haven't been any more volunteers since that time. We're limiting ourselves to whistling and a rain of garbage.
- Is it the same on the right bank?
- No, the same old sissies! - Flaxen-Haired spat angrily into the bushes. - They don't love like that. They love differently, the bitches! Our people who returned from there, all with flattened fingers.
- Flattened?
- Well, yes. With pliers. Or hammers. Could you pull out a person's nail with pliers?
- Ugh! - Dragovich shuddered.
- That's how they react too. Of course, they have sadists who can do that, in theory. And they are everywhere, I don't want to say it, but we have them too. But they still have to find them, and squeezing a finger with pliers is nothing special. Or hitting it with a hammer. Even I could do it. Who hasn't accidentally squeezed theirs or hit it with a hammer? And it hurts so much that it won't seem like a little.
- Is it like that for everyone? Are your fingers flattened?
- Well, maybe not 100% of everyone. And what difference does it make? I don't know which unit, but I myself have seen people with crippled fingers.
- Still, this isn't some kind of ancient torture.
- What do ancient tortures have to do with it? I, a man of the 22nd century, don't give a shit about the ancients. I'm talking about our time. So, compare two things - getting dirty in slop, or having your fingers broken? By the way, once upon a time in ancient cities, in Europe, you could get slop and even shit on your head for free, without being a Right Banker. You've probably heard of this?
- That was about five hundred years ago?
- Well, yeah.
- We didn't have that, that was in Paris.
- Yes, I have no doubt. They were always inventors there. They shit out of windows. They told us about it at school and even showed it to us. Excerpts from their own films. From documentaries, I think. Oh, I remembered, they drew pictures about it back then. An ass sticking out of a window and shitting!
- Wow, how you studied everything in detail!
- No, that's politics. When I studied in elementary school - that's three years, then another three - that's middle school. Well, all this time we were taught that Europe is degenerates, and America is good. They flew rockets to the moon there back in the century before last and they were the first to create the bomb, so that together with us they could build everything as it should be. And in general everything there is as it should be. But because of the machinations of the communists, this feud began, well, in the last century, even in the century before last. That's how we were taught until a certain year. Judging by the Internet, it was a fucking lie, especially about friendship with America and joint plans to defeat everyone. Then it all stopped. It stopped when... damn it... I don't remember what changed there. In short, then Europe suddenly became good, as did America. Well, and then the Pre-War, I, of course, had already finished school by then. In general, the funniest things were in those first years. The country was shaking after the Soviet Union fell apart. The boys and I used to run to watch the Hammer and Sickle station fall from orbit, but it was in a different location. What other ones were there… Zarya, Krasnoye Znamya. They all hit the mark. It turned out to be very prudent, even before the War. Dad got drunk with his friends. And in those days we moved from the Soviet shithole of a piss-stained panel house to the suburbs. We changed the house. That was the best thing. Oh, those times… And in fact, everything was harmless. And then in 2113, imported ones fell from orbit, they shot them down, and no one ran to watch, although it was perfectly visible. We had already seen enough of modern military bombing. Flaxen-H was definitely overwhelmed by some emotions, explained exclusively by personal memories. He most likely realized that Dragovich could not have separated them in any way - in those years he was not his neighbor at the desk or in the house.
Suddenly, from somewhere along the avenue, a loud "With Rifle and Grenade" was heard, broadcast through the speakers hanging on the poles.
Hear it playing? - Flaxen-Haired perked up. - Damn, if there had been one of our own there, at the departure site, they would have asked whether we were going or not.
- Maybe they are still getting into the cars? - Dragovich suggested.
- What a joke! They have been sitting there since the morning, fully prepared.
- Since the morning?
- Yes! What's the point of coddling them? They will already be courted there, on the right bank, so they will sit for a while. Let's go to the avenue already.
They both moved toward the alley between the houses facing the main street.
- The faces of the people crowding on the sidewalk were not even joyful, but bright. Flaxen-Haired wasn't lying when he said that people here behave differently. How little is needed, and what does a person really need, to transform like that!
- They're already leaving, rolled through the crowd.
- Excellent, civilians are more informed than us, - Flaxen-Haired grumbled barely audibly.
- Some guy picked up a kid of about five and sat him on his shoulders. The kid, in turn, was pulling either a strap or a belt, by which he eventually pulled out an M-16 automatic rifle from the thick of the crowd. Of course, a toy one - it was sixty to seventy percent the size of the original.
They made them here, maybe even in the city itself. Carved from dense wood on a CNC machine and properly blackened, these toys were in constant demand here, unlike in Europe, where children were given tanks and other vehicles.
- Young daddy! - Flaxen-Haired loudly addressed the man who was standing with his back to him. - Hello! Your toy is not the right one. Don't you know?
The man turned around slowly and smoothly. The rider stared at the grumpy stranger in bewilderment.
- Still not clear? - Flaxen-Haired barked and thrust his shoulder with the chevron forward. The man, who at first had shown the energy of a man ready to defend his whim, lowered his eyes and muttered something into the crowd. A woman's hand immediately reached out to the kid and began to pull the toy out of his grip.
- Flaxen-Haired, around whom a certain vacuum had already formed, approached the man and raised his head to the boy.
- Don't worry! When you grow up, you'll have one like this, - he made a sharp movement and a hand could be heard hitting the metal of his machine gun. - In the meantime, it's better to look at it like this. Or better yet, throw something.
After these words, Flaxen-Haired turned around and moved towards Dragovich.
- Give him some shit, - a young voice was heard from the crowd.
- You're shit yourself, - a female voice answered.
- I mean for him to throw something.
The details of the subsequent conversation disappeared into continuous noise.
After some time, when Dragovich and Flaxen-Haired had already chosen a place to stand, the buzzing of a drone was added to this noise of the crowd.
- They're coming! - said Flaxen-Haired. - Do you hear? The drone is flying! It's accompanying them!
Somewhere in the distance, a wave of screams rolled. Hateful screams.
The men took out their "ammunition" and stood at the ready. A drone carrying an entire optical station with a bunch of glittering lenses flew past and went towards the bridge. Immediately from the smeared roar emerged the clear rumble of a diesel engine, or rather several.
The first truck was an armored vehicle, the same type that carried the "Gaga" team, but, of course, this was different. Metal blinds were installed on the windows of this and the cars following it.
A car with an open body was moving slowly at a considerable distance behind it.
Metal elements - "arcs" were fixed to the body, on which tarpaulin is usually stretched. Here, instead of tarpaulin, there was a large-mesh metal net, tied into a kind of awning, apparently with ordinary wire.
An avalanche of all sorts of rubbish flew under the wheels and into the car itself. Some of what was flying into the car lingered on the top of the cage and, apparently, dripped down like a rain of garbage.
These drops fell on the heads of people sitting in two rows or kneeling in identical gray robes. Everyone's heads were equally looking at the floor. Thick sheets of armored glass or just thick plexiglass, somehow secured, stuck out over the sides - it was simply amazingly meticulous.
In the next car, one of the prisoners dared to turn his head and look at the crowd with a look full of hatred. A couple of paper bags with some kind of rotten dairy stuff, I suppose, immediately burst near the place where he was sitting.
The splashes managed to reach the neighbors of the viewer, but not him, although he had definitely gotten it earlier - everyone was equally dripping from above - this second car also managed to collect an impressive amount of various crap.
The third car with its passengers was no different from the first. There were five of them. Together with the escorts who walked at the beginning and at the end of the column - seven.
The crowd sighed in disappointment. In the old days, the number of such cars, according to Flaxen-H, reached two dozen, with ten people in each.
The cars crawled to the bridge, where on a cleared area of the crowd, or rather an area of an entire block, there was an exchange commission from the CSCE. There were also units of the demarcation group and many others, including even reporters from the KANAR side.
The exchange itself took place in such a way that the people being exchanged from both sides walked along the bridge accompanied by fighters from the demarcation forces and the CSCE - there were no representatives of either side there, on the bridge.
Cleaning machines were already moving quickly from the direction of the station. They were moving in several rows, raking the garbage scattered along the roadway to the side of the road. A machine collecting the trash followed.
After this machine, several watering machines were moving, unceremoniously gushing onto the side of the road and along the entire roadway as a whole.
The crowd, knowing full well what was going on, began to move and began to press against the houses. The fountains threw the garbage onto the sidewalk.
The avenue was being prepared for the passage of those returning from the SFS captivity. The crowd was retuning to a mood opposite to the original one. Pre-prepared banners in the colors of KANAR appeared.
Similar banners were fixed on real flagpoles installed on the sides of the hoods of buses that had been standing there by the bridge since early morning - the buses were getting ready to receive those returning.
When the two buses, solemnly escorted by an armed armored vehicle, passed the station, where Dragovich and Flaxen-Haired had reached by that time, it was already evening and the reddening sun had already stopped warming and was trying to hide behind buildings or trees. Below, in contrast to the tops of the houses, a purple shadow was already dominant, bringing in the evening chill. The impression of summer warmth at midday was indeed deceptive. It seemed that there, at the level of the upper floors, the day had not yet given in, had not retreated, almost a summer day, but here, below, there was already something completely different. Like twilight or something, and clearly not summer anymore.